Chapter 8 - Justice in the Dark
Victor scrambled backward across the floor, blood pouring from his split lip, his eyes wide with sudden, animal panic. He reached for his ankle holster, his fingers frantically clawing at the leather strap.
I didn't rush him. I walked around the desk, my movements deliberate and unstoppable, the way a tide rolls in over the rocks.
“You thought you could outsmart me in my own house, Victor,” I said, looking down at him as he backed into the bookshelf, scattering leather-bound volumes across the floor. “You thought my loyalty was a weakness.”
“Marco—wait—listen to me!” Victor choked out, holding up a bloodied hand as he finally drew a snub-nosed revolver from his ankle holster. He pointed it directly at my chest, his hand shaking violently. “Don't be a fool! If you kill me, the entire syndicate falls apart! The captains in New York will tear you apart! I know the bank codes! I know the accounts!”
“I don't need your bank codes, Victor,” I said, stopping three feet away from the barrel of his gun. “Because everything you stole... belongs to me now. And everything you built... is about to burn.”
The study door swung open behind me.
Dante stood in the doorway, flanked by four armed guards in tactical gear. They didn't point their weapons at Victor; they simply watched with cold, impassive expressions, waiting for a single word from me.
Victor looked at Dante, then back at me, realizing the terrifying reality of his situation. There was no escape. There was no backup. The fortress he thought he was slowly stealing out from under me had just locked its jaws around him.
“Dante,” I said without taking my eyes off my traitorous brother.
“Boss?”
“Take Mr. Romano down to the west wing sub-basement. Put him in the same cell Mia just left.”
Victor’s face turned the color of ash. The gun slipped from his trembling fingers, clattering uselessly against the hardwood floor. “No... Marco, not down there. Please—shoot me here. Put a bullet in my head, don't put me in that hole—”
“You spent three days listening to a mother knock on a steel door while her child cried upstairs,” I said, my voice cutting through his pleas like a butcher’s blade. “You can spend the rest of your life listening to the ghosts of the people you thought were too small to matter.”
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Two guards stepped forward, grabbing Victor by the arms and hoisting him up. He screamed, thrashing wildly, but his protests were swallowed by the thick walls of the estate as they dragged him out of the study, down the stairs, and into the dark.
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